


help wanted

by stopcryingyoullrust



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bounty Hunters, Foster Care, M/M, No Beta We Die Like Mandalorians, Past Child Abuse, Slow Burn, rating is bc of violence and content warnings, this is more of a collection of scenes than an actual story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-18 13:13:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29244129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stopcryingyoullrust/pseuds/stopcryingyoullrust
Summary: After accidentally rescuing a child, Din becomes a single dad. He never expected to become a parent. Even though he tries his best, the new responsibilities combined with his demanding job simply overwhelm him. He posts an ad searching for a live-in babysitter.Boba is eager to leave his past behind after a nearly deadly accident turned his world upside down. Trying to forge a new path is difficult, especially when it’s so hard to find a long-time, well paying gig, he’s resolved to answering every ad that catches his eye, even if it means he would have to learn on the job.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Boba Fett
Comments: 17
Kudos: 130





	1. The Child

**Author's Note:**

> This idea has been rattling around in my brain for quite some time now, but I really don't have the time to write it, so this is going to be more of a collection of scenes than a properly fleshed-out fanfic. Everything I know about bounty hunting I learned from The Mandalorian and the unjustly cancelled tv show Teenage Bounty Hunters.

Din shifted uncomfortably. His back was starting to kill him after hours spent in one position. He was not the young man capable of staking out his bounties for days on end anymore. He rolled his neck and shoulders, as much as the small space of the driver’s seat allowed, and sighed at the way they cracked and popped. It was time to face it. He was getting too old for this.

Din brought up his binoculars to look at the house up the road for what felt like a hundredth time. Yup, it was still there. Still standing out white against the desert landscape, but blending in perfectly with all the other dwellings in the neighbourhood. When he tracked his bounty down to Arvala, he expected nothing else. It was exactly the kind of unassuming city one would pick to hide in. Populous enough so that any new arrivals are not the talk of the town, yet tucked away from all major highways. It sprawled over the small valley and up the hills and he was sure that anyone unfamiliar with its geography could mistake the settlements up on the dunes as another town. The lack of density didn’t work in Din’s favor. 

He already spent too much time on the street. His van-turned-home was made to look from the outside just like any other delivery truck, with only solar panels on the roof betraying its real function. Still, with not many other cars around, he stood out like a sore thumb. He was always careful not to park too close to the target and to not stay there for long. Here, with only stray cacti and short wooden fences providing cover, he might as well have parked right on the curbside of the house. Years of experience screamed at the back of his head to move and grab the perp as soon as he arrived in town and not risk the guy running.

He was glad he didn’t listen, because something didn’t add up.

 _Fucking Greef Karga_ , Din repeated his daily motto. The Nevarro Bounty Bonds owner told him that this was just a simple ticket fine evasion, worth a hundred credits. Enough to cover the cost of tracking the bounty down and maybe buy a new radio for the van, if he’s lucky. 

And the house seemed perfectly suburban, all right. Its inhabitant did not. Shortly after Din parked his car down the street, the guy came out of the house. One look at him was enough to raise alarm bells in Din’s head. Even through the lens of his long distance camera, he could see the gun on the guy’s hip. It complicated things, for sure, but the fact that someone in a town like this could ever think to need one, made Din question what the man does for a living.

The man looked around his porch and went to feed two rottweilers, throwing some scraps into their locked enclosure, before going back inside. He hadn’t left the house since then. The dogs were staying locked alone for the whole day already and Din could only imagine what the lack of stimulation could do to a breed so dependent on it. 

It made one decision that much easier for him to make: if the guy put up any fight, Din was not going to hold back. Not at all.

He made a mental note to ensure the cage was closed before he entered the premises and to alert animal control after all went down.

The night had fallen over the town. Din had to decide to act.

With the only illumination on the street provided by a solitary street lamp near the front gate, Din didn’t worry that the neighbors would spot him sneaking around. He locked his van behind him and quickly scaled the road, deciding to approach the house from the back. The wind would blow his scent away from the dogs and he hoped that it’d be easier to surprise the perp. He jumped over the back fence with only a small groan of pain, which he counted as a success.

The backyard was entirely clear from vegetation, with most of it covered in concrete. A shaded-in barbecue area with an enormous, envy-inducing grill was the only thing providing cover. Din crouched behind a bench and assessed again all he had on him. The bulletproof jacket, possibly his most prized possession, was fastened securely in place. The utility belt had the handcuffs hanging off it in preparation. During his first years of bounty hunting, he obsessed over filling all the little compartments with everything he could ever possibly need on a hunt, small first aid kid and protein bars included, in case he ever got separately from his car. Nowadays it seemed like a hassle to just check how many cartridges he had left.

A sound startled him from his thoughts. The back door opened and the perp came out. Din froze in the darkness. 

The circle of light coming from inside the house illuminated only a small part of the backyard and the man didn’t seem to pay it much attention, focusing instead on his phone. He held it up in the air, probably trying to see if he could get a better connection. Satisfied, he brought it back to his ear. “Yeah, she’ll deliver it,” he was speaking into the phone. “Oh, don’t worry, Boss took collateral. She’ll pull through.”

A delivery, a collateral. Din didn’t like the sound of that. From up close, he could clearly make out the celtic tattoo on the man’s arm. _Fucking Greef Karga_. With every passing minute, Din was getting more and more sure that the perp would go down for not paying a speeding ticket the same way kingpins could go down for tax evasion.

“Tomorrow morning. As soon as I get any info,” the man said and turned to get back into the house. He turned his back to Din, a grave mistake. 

The time to act was now. Din took out his gun and rose slowly from behind the bench and stepped around it. The sandy subtract of the town made way to the concrete patio and Din took care to put down his boots as quietly as possible.

“Crest Windfire?” he asked, more out of an obligation than a need to confirm identity. The man froze, head tilting to look over his shoulder.

“Don’t move,” Din said, pointing the gun at the man. “I’m an agent of a bounty hunting guild, license number TK593. You’re going to put your hands behind your back, slowly.”  
To his credit, the man didn’t waste Din’s time with the usual I’m-not-the-one-you’re-searching-for routine. He moved his hands behind his back as instructed and stared straight ahead.

This hunt might not not go down in history as difficult, after all, Din thought and came up to the man. He holstered his gun and picked up a pair of handcuffs from his belt.

Before he could clasp them around the man’s wrists, the guy swiveled around and headbutted him straight in the face. A fist connected with Din’s groin, driving into it hard enough to make him bend outside of his own will. Another punch landed on his jaw, sending him prone backwards.

 _‘A hundred credits’_ ran through Din’s mind before his head connected with the concrete. Pain exploded white before his eyes. With a grunt, Din blinked rapidly, trying to clear the spots that blocked his vision, bright like staring right into the sun. Somewhere above him there was a rustle of fabric and the sound of a gun leaving it's holster.

He wondered then if this was it. If he was going to die here. A part of him was ready to welcome it. He was tired. He was so very tired.

But there was another part who said no. It was the part of him that survived the accident and subsequent joggling between five foster homes, a sting in juvie and the every day slog of trying to make ends meet in the last two decades.

That part of him said, _it's not your time yet. And you're not going to die in some Nazi dealer's backyard._

It sounded surprisingly like Arnie.

He threw his right foot in the air, more on instinct than knowing where to kick. Still, his heavy boot connected with the man's knee, surprising him enough for the impact to rattle his figure and buy Din a precious second.

Din rolled on his stomach and jumped to a squat. Turning, he threw his elbow back, connecting it with the man's stomach and used the momentum to crash into him, bringing him down to the ground. It was hardly elegant, but did the job. He climbed on top of him and slammed the man’s wrist against the concrete. 

With a yelp, the man released his gun. He wasn’t ready to give up though. His hands went straight for Din’s neck, with a powerful grip on Din’s windpipe making him see stars again.

Not waiting anymore time, Din grabbed the man’s head and slammed it back on the patio floor, satisfied to give him a taste of his own medicine.

The guy’s arms stopped, he slumped on the ground. Din took another pair of handcuffs off his belt and put them on the perp, before getting up. Standing over the man, he watched him slowly coming to. Not wanting to risk anything, Din took out another pair of handcuffs and bound the man's ankles. This pair had a wider chain link so the man would be able to shuffle down the road to Din's car. 

Din panted, the adrenaline in his blood still rattling his heart. He furrowed his brow, focusing on the ringing sound echoing in his skull and realized at once that what he was hearing was actually the rottweilers barking furiously upfront. Scared of the scuffle he caused, they no doubt snarled and jumped around their small enclosure. Liable to alert the whole neighborhood.

Din tensed up, looking around the backyard. Somewhere in the distance, another dog howled in response to the rottweilers’ barking. Bright lights of a passing car moved down the street. Wind breezed down the hills with a whoosh. Someone laughed loudly. 

No one was coming to check on their unfriendly neighborhood Nazi. Not from other dwellings and certainly not from inside the house.

Din’s head still hurt. He ran his hand over the messy curls, long past due a haircut, and sighed in relief when his hand came back dry. Nothing requiring immediate medical attention, then. It’s okay, he told himself. All he had to do was to manhandle the guy to his car and bring him to the nearest station. Good day, overall.

He eyed the opened backdoor. Throughout the whole day, no one new entered or exited the house outside from his perp. That didn’t mean no one was home. Despite only having one level, the house sprawled out with at least several rooms.

Din picked up his gun, looked at the guy one last time to make sure he’s incapacitated and slowly moved toward the house.

Just a quick sweep, he decided. It’s better to check than to risk a bullet in the back. As soon as the guy is booked someone will come down and take care of the dogs. It’s not going to be any of Din’s concern at that point.

He stepped to the side of the door and looked inside from behind the door frame. The back area was a laundry room, but a narrow corridor led deeper into the house. Din walked slowly, his gun at the ready. From the front of the house, television could be heard blasting some kind of action movie. He hoped that if someone was there, the sounds had drowned out the fight and now Din’s footsteps. He came up to the first door in the corridor and listened in. Nothing could be heard from inside. He pressed the handle slowly and pushed the door open.

A bathroom. Clean and spacious, with the kind of bathtub that probably had a bigger square footage than Din’s current domicile.

He made a quick way down the hallway and checked the remaining rooms. One door was locked, but aside from that there were no surprises.The house was clear. Din could go. 

Something at the back of his head made him look again at the only locked room. It was probably nothing. Maybe the guy was stupid enough to keep something from his illegal bussiness in the house and that’s where it was hidden.

Surprising himself, he touched the wooden door. 

It was the lack of sleep, he decided. He was letting his imagination run wild.

His hand dropped and he turned to leave.

“Patu?”

Din stopped in his tracks. The sound came from within the room. 

“Hello?” he called out. “Is anyone there?”

The only response this time was a soft whine. It sounded like a child’s.

He came up to the door and pressed his ear against it, calling out again. Silence was the only response, but he knew even in his weary and sleep deprived state, he wasn’t hallucinating. 

He went quickly back outside and searched the perp’s pockets, listening patiently to the guy’s assurances that he’s going to regret this or that. Having found a key, he nearly ran back into the house. He had to steady his hand to fit the key into the hole and when he turned it and the door opened, Din’s entire body seized up.

Alone, in the darkness, there was a child sitting on the floor, a dirty blanket pooled around him. An oversized t-shirt and a diaper looked like to be the only pieces of clothing he had on.

The boy looked at him with big, dark eyes. 

Din picked up his phone and dialed the number of a member of child’s protective services; his sister.


	2. The Armorer

Din entered his sister's workshop already suspecting the conversation was going to be difficult. 

"Peli said you're making something for me?" he asked.

Arnie didn’t even look up from the piece of wood she was staining, choosing a noncommittal shrug instead. It unlodged a stray loc she had to tuck back into the bun on top of her head.

Din stared at the metal frame she already put together. It was hard to define what it was meant to be in its unfinished state. "Proportions seem a bit off," he said, knowing that will get her attention. "You realize I can't fit anything new in my van, let alone unessential decoration like... a coffee table?"

"I know you didn't come here to criticize my craftsmanship," she said, pouring more stain on the rag. Her hands worked quickly over the plank, intensifying the natural grain of wood.

She was right, he wasn’t interested in carpentry. Ever since Arvala, there was only one question on his mind. "What are they going to do with him?"

"You know how the process works,” Arnie said, her movements slowing down and becoming more deliberate, just as the words she chose. “He's in emergency housing now. Going through a string of evaluations."

Din swallowed his next question. It sat heavy on his stomach. He could imagine, based on a hazy memory, how the evaluations would look, but as to what they’d reveal… He didn’t want to dwell on it. He never went through anything close to the kid’s ordeal, but the process of being handed over to complete strangers was difficult enough to bear. There was only hope that the kid was young enough to not remember much of it.

“They'll be looking for his family, right?” 

Arnie sighed. "I should think so. The investigation is ongoing. It’d be good for him to have a good home in the meantime,” she said, looking directly at him. 

“That’s why I came. You should bring the kid here.”

Arnie looked down on her gloved hands. “We decided we’re not taking in any more kids.”

“What? Why?”

“We’re not getting any younger, Din. Despite what Peli may think. And it’s hard enough to keep track of five teens, I can’t imagine adding a toddler to the mix.” Finding some quiet resolve, she went back to her work. “You still have your foster license? Or did it expire?”

Din furrowed his brows at the sudden segue. “I’d have to check that. I doubt it’s still valid.”

“You do that,” she said firmly. “I have a friend who will push things along.”

Din couldn't stop the bitter laugh at his realization. "You can’t possibly be saying he should stay with me. Bounty hunter’s van is no place for a child."

“Oh, please. Don’t you have a one-man detective agency as well?” She smiled as if the matter was already settled.

Din sighed in frustration. “I have no idea how to take care of a kid.”

"At least you know sign language. At least with you he could learn to communicate,” she said evenly. “Apparently no one showed him before. And who knows if he ends up with people willing to give him that connection."

He truly admired her ability to always know what to say. His mind already started racing over the signs he remembered from the short course he took years back and, in his head, he was already signing up for another one. He shook his head to dispel the imaginings.

As if expecting further dispute, she spoke before he had a chance. “The child that was placed with Paz and his wife has siblings. To reconnect them, the Vizslas will need a bigger space. They’ll vacate the apartment.”

Seeing his incredulous look, Arnie added, “As you know, she left it in her will for all three of us to use.”

Din stared, speechless. Though the whole thing couldn’t have been organized in advance, it sure seemed like she had been juggling some plans for him for a while.

Her eyes softened when she looked at him. “Remember the first time we met?”

“Of course,” he said, suddenly feeling defeated. “I remember what you said, word for word.”

“Good. Keep it with you,” she said and then pointed at her newest project. “And that’s not a coffee table, stupid. It’s going to be a crib.”


	3. The Prisoner

Boba got off the bus as soon as the door slid open. He cursed under his breath when he caught the sight of the display clock at the bus stop. He was going to be late. He couldn't exactly run, not with his back, and coming to the job interview sweaty and out of breath would not have won him any favors anyway. He settled for a brisk walk down the street, watching carefully the numbers of buildings’ he passed to make sure he wouldn't miss the one he was supposed to arrive at.

He quickly realized it was redundant as he neared the correct address. The building didn’t stand out against the architecture of this office-ridden district, but the _Call Center Coruscant_ sign over the doors was too prominent to be missed.

Boba pushed the glass door open and walked up quickly to the reception desk. The woman behind it startled; her eyes fixed on his face before looking him up and down. 

“Good afternoon,” he rasped out. “I had an appointment at 3:30, it’s, uh, a job interview.”

She finally teared away from him to look at her computer. “Right… Mister…?” she asked tentatively. 

“Jaster Mereel,” Boba supplied.

“Of course. Well,” she looked at the clock on her desk and shot him a glance. Boba’s heart sank. “The applicants are currently talking with our recruiter, but you can wait until the interview is over to speak one on one.” She nodded at the corridor on the left side of the lobby. “You can go in there and through the open space to the office at the end.”

“Yes. Thank you,” Boba said, stifling the need to apologize. He started walking the way she instructed, his feet feeling more like lead with every step.

He passed the open office space, looking over the rows of cubicles occupied by people of varying ages. Barely any of them paid him any mind, most engrossed in conversations they were having. At first glance, the employees seemed all doing the same thing, hunched over papers, headsets in place on every head he saw. They could all technically see each other over the short partitions, but nary a few appeared interested in making eye contact with their neighbours. It was a crowd one could get lost in and there was nothing Boba needed more.

As the receptionist said, there was an office at the end of the room but even this spot was not free from everybody's eyes. It was encased by glass walls, so Boba could look inside at the five people seated around a conference table, engaged with whatever the woman standing in front of them was explaining. 

Boba stopped by the entrance, awkwardly shifting his thin document case from hand to hand. The woman caught a sight of him and - to her credit- she didn't flinch, even as Boba saw her gaze slid over the scars on his face.

Once the interview was over and the people began to pour out of the office, Boba stepped to the side, waiting to be left alone with the recruiter. Anxiety and shame ate at him, searing a deep sinking feeling into his stomach. 

"Mister Mereel, is that right?" She asked him, her hand beaconing him into the office.

"Yes. I'm incredibly sorry for being late, I cannot express how out of character it is," Boba said and tried on a smile. The scars tightened the skin around the eyes, reminding him that the years of charming people were over. Not that he was ever good at that to begin with.

"I understand, we all have those days," she said placantly. "Please, sit. We'll have to keep this brief now, but I do want to ask you a few questions."

“Of course," Boba said and brought up his case, careful to open it on the CV where he lied about previous sales experience and not the one geared toward a mechanic gig he was interviewing for earlier. He passed the CV to her and she looked at it appraisingly.

"I see you know a thing or two about retail," she said. “What made you want to apply for this position, specifically?"

I need to eat and have a place to stay, Boba wanted to say. Instead, he schooled his face into a look that he hoped conveyed a pensive consideration. Okay, just as you practised, he thought to himself.

"I always like to challenge myself through work,” he said. “As you can see, I've been a sales representative for several years, but never through telemarketing capacity. And I'm looking forward to gaining new experience."

She nodded in satisfaction, eyes zeroing on what he wrote about his previous place of employment on the piece of paper.

It was put together quite well, if he said so himself. He wrote in varying places of employment, but never gave himself a high enough position in them to raise suspicion. There was even a three month gap in his work history, just to make the CV feel even more real. It was supposed to convey the image of a simple man who was a dedicated worker with experience but also held no higher ambitions. Not a perfect employee but any means, but those get looked on more closely.

"I see,” she said, putting the document down, and smiled. “Well, if you’re looking toward learning new things, you’re in luck! We value employees who want to grow and expand their skill set and you can do that in the training period during the first two weeks.”

Boba smiled back, hoping it looked genuine enough. “That’s so exciting,” he said, as evenly as he could. “I’m looking forward to that opportunity. You know, I assume since we're spending 40 hours a week at one place, we should keep things interesting.”

"This isn't a full time position," the woman said, her smile firmly in place.

Boba blinked in confusion. He was sure he read that in the ad. "It's not?"

"At first we offer a contract guaranteeing 30 hours per week, " she explained and slid a piece of paper from the stack on the table toward him. "But as you can see here, our motivation system more than makes up for it, allowing our employees a flexible schedule!”

“It does?” Boba looked at the rows of formulas on the document.

“Of course. As you see in this example,” she said, pointing at the paper, “just achieving a daily target gives you two extra credits for every work hour. After reaching that, the bonus system kicks in.” Her finger slid over to the next paragraph. “For every fifth sale above daily target on a given day, you get additional five credits, capped at 5% of your baseline weekly earnings."

"I see," Boba said, although he really didn't. His previous, long-term “employers” were hardly honest men, but now Boba had a feeling that they could learn a lot from this establishment. “When can I start?”

After the interview was finally over, Boba walked outside and looked at his watch with a weary sigh. He had only one more meeting scheduled for the day, four hours from now, and it was probably not worth the bus fare. The job offer seemed too good to be true: a decent paycheck and free housing, all in exchange for babysitting some potty-trained kid. Boba considered briefly if it was some kind of scam, but the man he spoke to on the phone seemed too distracted to be running a con. Either way, the likelihood that Boba was going to be picked to care for some kid was very low. He didn’t have it in him to lie about experience with childcare. And chances were, the kid would take one look at him and run away.

Still, he was asked to come in.

Boba looked down the street in the direction of the bus stop and palmed the few credits he had left in his pocket, his mind already doing the usual calculations. The ParsecEats paycheck should arrive in two days. The babysitting gig was on the other end of the town, maybe three hours on foot, so he should arrive with some time to spare. It was going to be a long walk, but if he saved up on the ticket, he could buy some food on the way there. 

Hoping he wouldn’t talk himself out of going there half-way through, he started in the direction of his next appointment.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm hosting a [gen gift exchange](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/noromo_mando_gift_exchange) in The Mandalorian fandom! If you like creating gen!fanfic and art, check it out and consider signing up. :)


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